Walking the dog is making my life better. I am not sure why or how or what the connection is, but I've found that taking my stinky old doggy out on the leash for 20 quiet minutes is making me sane.
Thank dog, I'm finally fixed.
She's such fun to walk. She sniffs all around and barks. I talk to myself and to her. I laugh at her and she looks up at me as if I'm the greatest thing, ever.
I feel bad for his dog, though. He gets left at home, whining. I don't want to walk his dog, since his dog is his dog...but it's not fair for the poor animal to have to stay home when his sister is going out on adventures. Poor fellow.
There's all these dead animals. There's a dead squirrel, flattened and with one stiff arm. There's a dead bird, small and gray. There was a very distressing dead pit bull on the main street, but someone got it up. It was a beauty, brown and with a huge head. It must have been somebody's baby.
He wanted to come with me this morning when I walked her, and it made me panic. I told him I was going for a run with her, and he said ok. I like the idea of walking the dogs together, especially as it will alleviate my guilt for his dog not getting walked...but I need it privately, too. It's becoming sacred god-dog meditation and prayer and reflection on mortality by observing roadkill time for me, and I can't have him all up in my bidness like that.
He followed me all around the house last night, like a hunter, stalking my serenity. I was so sane, and it drove him nuts. He really, really seemed to NEED for me to scold him, bother him, nurse him, all together in that way I'm so good at doing. I know he felt awful, but I just can't spend any more of my life taking care of him because he put some godawful combination of substances in his body. I've done my time, and I'm done.
A wise woman at a meeting said recently that her husband's addiction had taken nearly a year of her life from her, and she wasn't going to let it have another day. I like that...not one more day.